


Like Falling Off A Log

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Death can be as simple as falling off a log. Which is why you should steer clear of logs. For people with facelifts, death has to look up slightly, but you still get the same effect, i.e. death." (Guy Browning)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Falling Off A Log

**Author's Note:**

> While major character death does occur, it's both non-graphic and prior to the start of this fic.

It's a morning just like any other. Gerard gets up, struggles into some relatively clean clothes, demolishes a pop tart and staggers off into the bathroom where he brushes his teeth and runs a half-hearted hand through the grease-caked disaster area that is his hair. Making a mental note to buy more toothpaste, he stumbles back into the kitchen. His hip knocks against the corner of the cheap formica table but he doesn't even feel it, and sets about making coffee, pouring it carefully into the dented thermos flask. It's like a groggy, uncoordinated dance he knows so well he sleep-walks through the motions on autopilot; lather, rinse, repeat.  
   
He doesn't mind the routine. There's something comforting in the mundanity, like a song you've heard a hundred times or the road home you know like the back of your hand.  
   
Eventually, he's ready. He emerges into the chilly, grey morning air, glancing up at the blanket of cloud overhead and thinking vaguely that it looks like rain. That's alright. He's never minded the rain; there's a kind of muted melancholy to it that suits the city better than the sun ever did. He notices the way the spidery trees look like dark cut-outs against the flat, pale sky. He might try to duplicate it on paper later, with washed-out watercolours and slender streaks of India ink.  
   
Passers-by don't acknowledge him or even swerve around him when they get close, their eyes sliding past his as they walk on by and leaving it to him to dodge around them. He doesn't mind, really – they don't know him, why should they care? – but he wishes sometimes that one of them would nod or smile or even just meet his eyes once in a while. He's never been one for unnecessary socialising, but that doesn't mean he isn't allowed to feel lonely now and then.  
   
He slips through the door of the faceless office block behind a woman in monstrously high heels and a charcoal-grey skirt suit so sharp Gerard wonders how she manages to avoid cutting herself on it. She exchanges pleasantries with chiselled blonde receptionist, but doesn't turn to look at Gerard, just click-clacks purposefully across the lobby to the elevator while Gerard ambles over to the stairs. The receptionist goes back to his magazine without so much as a glance in Gerard's direction. Gerard sighs, and starts to climb. As naturally lazy as he is, he's not fond of elevators. It always seems like there's such an awful lot that could go wrong – jammed gears, frayed cables – that the nail-biting state of nervous wreckage induced just isn't worth the effort saved.  
   
He peels away from the stairs onto the third floor, drifting through the open door and sliding quietly into his empty cubicle. There are already a few other people around, those closest to him talking in oddly hushed voices much quieter than everyone else's.  
   
He doesn't care. If it's a joke, it's probably not funny. If it's at his expense, well, what's new? None of them talk to him anyway; it's not like they're his friends or anything. Not even the chubby redheaded girl who used to smile at him from time to time, which is sort of sad, but hardly the end of the world.  
   
He pretends not to notice the way they don't notice him, and wonders why his phone isn't ringing. He remembers when he first started working here, the way it would ring every few minutes with another near-hysterical person demanding to know why their printer wouldn't print and how to get it to do so as soon as possible. He remembers honing the blend of tech geek and guidance counsellor that always worked to calm them down; the best way to tell them to try turning it off and back on again without sounding impatient; the tone of voice that was earnest and involved and reassuring rather than just bored and condescending.  
   
So maybe it wasn't a great job. But he wasn't bad at it, and at least he didn't feel quite as lost as he does now. He rests his chin on his hands and stares at the phone, wondering if he can telepathically persuade it to ring.  
   
It doesn't work, but it helps to pass the time. He toys with the idea of drawing something, but his desk is completely clear of anything he could draw _on_ (funny, because he's sure hedoesn't remember tidying it up), and picking up the pencil stub lying motionless by his right hand just seems like more trouble than it's worth.  
   
When five o' clock finally rolls round, he can't even summon any real enthusiasm for going home. He's not _un_ happy, as such – why should he be? – he just feels sort of flat, somehow, like a fizzy drink with the lid left off for too long. He's not sure when he last had a decent conversation with someone; hell, he doesn't even know when he last had so much as an uncomfortable, vaguely unsatisfying conversation with someone. It probably wasn't all that long ago, but lately, he seems to have started forgetting every day as it happens. _It could be worse_ , he tells himself, as he slouches along unnoticed in the steady trickle of people leaving the building. _You're not starving, you're not terminally ill, you've got a job and an apartment and enough food. So man up and quit bitching about it._  
   
He doesn't know when it started, but he's used to it – the way he might as well be invisible for all the notice people take of him. So when he hears a shout of "Hey!" from somewhere over his left shoulder, he assumes it's directed at someone else and doesn't stop.  
   
"Hey! Wait up!"  
   
He hears quick footsteps on the sidewalk behind him, the shift and pull of clothing and the huff of breath as the owner of the footsteps jogs to catch up with Gerard. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he turns just in time to see a short, dark-haired guy fall into step beside him.  
   
"Hey," says the guy, looking expectantly at Gerard.  
   
"Um, hey?" says Gerard, feeling thoroughly confused, like he's missing something. He doesn't know what to make of this; on the one hand, some random dude has just started talking to him in the street for no apparent reason, which is sort of weird. On the other hand, an actual person is actually _talking to him_.  
   
"So?" says the guy, his eyebrows arching up over round hazel eyes. He shoves his hair off his face, and Gerard catches a tantalising glimpse of ink on his hands and what he can see of his arms through the holes in his oversized hoodie. He looks young, but something's _off_ , somehow; Gerard thinks he's older than he seems.  
   
"Do I... know you?" Gerard asks doubtfully, racking his brain.  
   
"Oh! Fuck, sorry. I'm Frank." Frank extends a hand and Gerard shakes it. When Frank's hand touches his, a shiver rattles up his spine. The feeling of skin-on-skin, of someone else _touching_ him, is odd and alien and perfectly balanced between delicious and horrible.  
   
"Gerard," he says, reluctantly letting go of Frank's hand.  
   
"Cool."  
   
"You really think so?"  
   
Frank grins and Gerard blinks, dazzled. He'd forgotten what it's like to have someone smile at you, to feel that sudden blaze of warmth and know it's because of _you_. It makes him shiver again, but definitely in a good way this time.  
   
"So," says Frank again. That blinding grin fades and suddenly the evening air seems a little colder. His eyes turn earnest and sympathetic. "How're you coping?"  
   
"Coping?" Wrongfooted, Gerard runs a hand through his hair. "Fine, I guess. You know what it's like." He shrugs.  
   
Frank nods understandingly, and Gerard begins to get the sinking feeling that they're talking at crossed purposes. "For what it's worth," he says sincerely, "You've got a great attitude."  
   
"Um, thanks?" It comes out like a question, but it seems like the right thing to say.  
   
"No, I mean it!" Frank nods emphatically. "Seriously, some of the stuff I've seen from people? You have _no idea_ , man. Sometimes people get angry, some people cry, some of them go into denial, some of them beg..." he trails off, his mouth twisting. "The ones who beg are the worst," he says unhappily, then perks up again. "But, I mean, sometimes I get someone like you! Which totally makes up for all the rest of it, you know? You seem to be dealing with it pretty well."  
   
Gerard stops, now completely lost and also utterly positive that he and Frank are talking about completely different things. "Wait, wait, wait," he says, his forehead scrunching up in confusion. " _What?_ "  
   
Frank looks uncomfortable, and Gerard briefly debates the likelihood that a) Frank is completely insane or b) this is all some kind of elaborate but mystifying joke, of the kind that usually involves hidden camera crews.  
   
"Well, you know..." Frank looks down, scuffing his feet. He's positively _squirming_ and Gerard's dying to know what the hell he's on about despite himself. "What with you being... you know, and all..." Frank continues, looking like he's willing Gerard to just _get_ it and put him out of his misery.  
   
But Gerard _doesn't_ get it, and opts instead for standing there in the middle of the street as people flow past, unseeing. Frank frowns slightly, in a way that intimates that he thinks playing dumb is in rather poor taste.  
   
Then, suddenly, comprehension sparks. Frank's eyes widen and he draws in a sharp, shocked breath.  
   
"Oh, _shit_ ," he breathes. "You have absolutely no idea, do you?"  
   
He grabs Gerard by the arm and leads him over to a bench underneath a skeletal tree.  
   
"What the fuck, man?!" protests Gerard, as Frank propels him firmly onto the cold, hard seat and sits down next to him. Frank's eyes are so big Gerard thinks he could just about fall into them, and Frank reaches out to take both of his hands.  
   
"Gerard," Frank says, gently, "Look, I hate to be the one who tells you this, I really do. I mean, there's no easy way to say it, but," he hesitates, swallowing uncomfortably. "Gerard, you're _dead_. Two months ago, you got up, left your apartment and forgot to look before you crossed the street. You were hit by a bus. I'm _so_ sorry. Really."  
   
There is a long, long silence. Frank fiddles nervously with a stray thread on his hoodie; waiting, waiting, waiting.  
   
"Well," Gerard says, eventually. "That explains a lot."  
   
Frank nods understandingly. "Delayed reaction," he says sadly. "Happens to the best of us. I'll just... give you a couple of minutes to let it sink in, alright?"  
   
Gerard looks at him. "No, really," he says. "I get it."  
   
Frank doesn't look convinced. "Really?" he says doubtfully. "I mean, it's sort of a big deal. Like, you don't have to... you know, pretend to be ok with it. You're _allowed_ to be upset."  
   
"I _get_ it," he repeats. "I really do. I'm dead." The words taste strange, but they don't feel wrong. "I mean, things've been... weird. It kind of makes sense."  
   
His mouth twists into a small smile that's trying awfully hard to be reassuring, and Frank giggles, bright and sudden and surprising.  
   
" _You're_ weird," he says. "Anyone ever tell you that?"  
   
"Frequently, if you'd believe it. Only, you know, not so much recently. Haven't really been talking much to anyone, you know?"  
   
Frank's face falls and he wraps a comforting arm around Gerard's shoulders. "Well, no," he says. "What with people not being able to... uh, see you. 'N all."  
   
Frank's so adorably _awkward_ that it's making Gerard feel socially competent, which doesn't happen often.  
   
"Yeah," he says, smiling back and leaning into Frank. Under any other circumstances, he'd be a little embarrassed by the way the way he suddenly _needs_ the contact desperately, like an anchor. But all normal logic is so utterly fucked sideways, he thinks it's ok. For a few seconds, neither of them speaks. Gerard contemplates being dead. It's pretty disappointing, so far. Just like life, but not really as good.  
   
"So," he says, after several seconds of staring unseeingly into the passing traffic. "How does it work? Am I, like, a ghost now?"  
   
Frank's face scrunches up slightly in what could be disapproval. "You've seen too many movies, man. It's not... it's sort of a bit more complicated than that. Best way I can explain it is that sometimes people leave... echoes, I guess? But not _ghosts_ , really. Or, well. Not the way you're thinking."  
   
"Oh." Gerard nods thoughtfully, and silence falls again. He frowns. "So you're saying I'm, like, an echo?"  
   
"Something like that."  
   
"Right. So how come I can still pick things up and stuff? And how I come I can't, like, walk through walls?"  
   
"Have you tried?"  
   
"What?"  
   
"Well, have you tried? To walk through a wall?"  
   
A fair point; Gerard has to concede that, no, he hasn't. It just hadn't really occurred to him before now. "No," he admits. There's other stuff he wants to know – stuff like _how come I can still feel_ , because he can definitely feel Frank pressed up against his side and draped around his shoulders and it's somehow sharper and stronger than anything he remembers from when he was alive. But, you know, he doesn't really know Frank and he figures it's probably not polite to ask something like that so soon.  
   
Instead, he settles for, "Why are you the only one who can see me?"  
   
"I'm not the only one. Well. I'm _probably_ not the only one." Frank huffs, apparently frustrated with his own inability to give a straight answer. "That's the thing with all this. There's no handbook, no one who fuckin'... I don't know, _studies_ it or anything. No one really knows any more than they've worked out for themselves."  
   
"And you?" says Gerard softly, tracing Frank's profile with his eyes, suddenly itching to draw him. "What do you know?"  
   
Frank turns to look at him, eyes big and winter-dark. "Enough," he says. "I know it's different for everyone. How much you can do depends on how much of you is still here, if that makes any sense."  
   
That _does_ make some kind of weird sense.  
   
"Echoes," says Gerard, a minute or so later. "You said echoes. Echoes fade. Is that what happens to us?" He isn't scared, he realises with some surprise. He wants to know what really happens afterwards. This is barely even limbo; no man's land.  
   
"Sometimes." That blazing grin returns in full force, and it's like the sun coming out. "Or sometimes, you gotta spell it out for someone who's such a dumbass they don't even _notice they're dead_ , or they'll just keep going forever."  
   
Gerard is so surprised he laughs, really, genuinely laughs for the first time in months. He thinks that's probably insensitive at best and downright offensive at worst, but Frank's smile is easy and guileless and Gerard doesn't think he could be angry if he tried.  
   
"You're cute when you laugh," beams Frank, with a disarming lack of subtlety that Gerard struggles not to find _ridiculously_ charming. He shakes his head mock-ruefully. "Man, if I'd met you when we were both still alive..."  
   
"Yeah?" Gerard feels warm all over.  
   
"Yeah." Frank edges a little closer to him, and the silence that follows is the easiest, most comfortable one yet.  
   
"So, you too?" says Gerard, a minute or so later when his curiosity finally gets the better of him. Frank flinches and Gerard wonders if he's committed some heinous breach of post-mortem etiquette.  
   
"Yeah. Electrocuted by a faulty amp. It was... nasty."  
   
"I bet." He wonders why Frank remembers his own death; Gerard still has no recollection at all of his. Not that he's complaining. It's like Frank says, he supposes – everyone's different when they're alive; why shouldn't things be the same way afterwards?  
   
"So... now what?" he asks, after a while.  
   
Frank laughs, startled. "Fuck, what makes you think _I_ know?"  
   
Gerard feels a bit cheated. He hadn't even realised how much he'd unconsciously been hoping that Frank had at least some of the answers. "Oh," he says. "Well. I just."  
   
"I mean, sure, I've been... like this a bit longer than you, but I don't know _anything_ – I mean, not really." He pauses, cutting Gerard a tentative sidelong look from under his eyelashes. "Maybe we should, uh, stick together and see what we come up with?"  
   
Under all Frank's charm, there's a genuine uncertainty, clear as a solid black question mark hanging in the air, that makes Gerard want to hug him and makes his chest feel all weird and tight.  
   
"Yeah," he says. He reaches out to take Frank's hand. "Yeah, I'd like that." 


End file.
